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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615587">For in that sleep of death what dreams may come</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonttellNightwing/pseuds/DonttellNightwing'>DonttellNightwing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Brainwashed Aziraphale, Character Death, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Sad Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:36:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonttellNightwing/pseuds/DonttellNightwing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is going to die. He takes his final hours to say goodbye.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>For in that sleep of death what dreams may come</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title comes from Shakespeare's Hamlet. Thought it fitting.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley was going to die.</p>
<p>He knew. He wouldn’t fight it.</p>
<p>He couldn’t fight him. Not him.</p>
<p>The bookshop was dusty when he entered. The books were all in their spots, even though he still hadn’t figured out the organization. The little bench by the window had a thin layer of dust, and the sun shining through showed the particles littering the air. The plants were the only bits of life in the bookshop that seemed smaller. The books that once contained life and imagination and love were empty. Just words on a page.</p>
<p>Crowley walked silently around, toward the back room where he heard ghosts of laughter. The plants shook as he passed them, but steadied. He wasn’t there for them. </p>
<p>The phone rang three times, until the lady on the other end picked up.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale?” the voice was hopeful. It wouldn’t last.</p>
<p>Crowley said his goodbyes. To Anathema, Adam, and everyone else. Then he wrote a letter. Two, actually. One to Warlock, and one to Aziraphale. He’d went to burn the second but stopped. He didn’t want heaven to read it, but burning it felt wrong. Instead, he went to the copies of Shakespeare, found the oldest of Hamlet, and placed the piece of paper on the same page as the soliloquy.</p>
<p>He never cared much for the tragedies. Still, the lines hit a bit too close to home.</p>
<p>What would happen when he died? Immortals were supposed to be, well, immortal. Where would he go? Or would he just. Stop.</p>
<p>He put the other letter at the front, and he somehow knew it would get to Warlock safely.</p>
<p>He went back to the back room and looked around. The memories flooded through his mind, now that he let them. The drunk days and nights, the random conversations that went everywhere. The plans, the joy. Now, more recently, the hours spent kissing on the sofa, love confessions that were far past due. The stupid poetry he came up with while drunk.</p>
<p>The room had seen so much, they had been through so much. Now it was over. No more warm nights cuddled underneath an ugly tartan rug. No more dinners at the Ritz. No more drunk kisses that they sobered up halfway through.</p>
<p>An apocalypse of their own.</p>
<p>He let his hand run over the old books, feeling the worn leather spines. How many times did his angel open these? Read them with the gentlest of touches, watching the world unravel at his fingertips?</p>
<p>This room contains so much love. Demons can’t sense it, but he knew it was there. He hoped, one day, when he and anyone who ever knew him was gone, the love would stay. That even a sliver would plant itself in the foundation and refuse to move.</p>
<p>He let himself breath.</p>
<p>It had been so long, since he had reached out to her like this. No dramatics, no pleading for the world not to end. Just a son, trying to say goodbye.</p>
<p>She didn’t answer, but he hoped it got through.</p>
<p>He stayed like that and remembered. He let himself be taken away from the heartbreak he felt, let himself fly away on his wings that mirrored the galaxies. He let himself remember. </p>
<p>The bell rang, and he couldn’t tell how long he had stood there. The soft jingle masked the great danger coming towards him.</p>
<p>He knew, though. He wasn’t the naïve angel he was. Not anymore.</p>
<p>The fall of footsteps stopped at the entrance of the back room, and Crowley turned to see his undoing. </p>
<p>He stood there, dressed in clothing way too new, the colour of the suit a light grey instead of cream. His piercing blue eyes stared at him without any recognition, and Crowley’s heart dropped to his stomach. His hair was as blond as ever, but styled into a more business look, curls flattened. He held the flaming sword like he was made for it. He was.</p>
<p>Crowley took a step forward. The plants shook. Not out of fear of him, but fear for him.</p>
<p>The angel stepped closer, and closer. They were nose to nose, looking straight into each other’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale.” He let the name slip between his lips. He wanted Aziraphale to recognize him. To stop and shake off what they did to him. But he didn’t want his angel to feel responsible. To destroy himself over what he is doing or about to do.</p>
<p>The sword stabs into his stomach, sliding through like butter, the fire burning the demon as it runs him through completely. The holy fire seeps through him like poison. A slow crawl working its way through his body.</p>
<p>He stands as long as he can, but when he falls, he brings Aziraphale down, leaning over him, sword still stuck in his grip.</p>
<p>He feels when the fire reaches his heart. How it slowly eats it up. This wasn’t a fast death. Holy water would have killed him instantly. Painfully, but instantly. This, however, this they did to make him suffer.</p>
<p>His eyes grew dull as he looked at his lost lover and reached his hand up to Aziraphale’s cheek. He rubbed the cheek with the pad of his thumb, feeling the soft skin there. The softness he loved was nearly gone, now. The warmth the angel had provided, once like a roaring fire, was now an artificial lightbulb.</p>
<p>With the last dredges of strength, Crowley pulled himself up, and pressed his lips into the robot who wore his lover’s face. He ran his hands through the styled blond hair, and golden blood dribbled from his mouth and down his chin.</p>
<p>He wasn’t Aziraphale. Not anymore. They took that away. They took him away.</p>
<p>He let his eyes close, and hoped that he would see Aziraphale, HIS Aziraphale, on the other side.</p>
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